


A Little White Lie

by TokioSunset



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Cocaine, Drugs, Friendship, Gen, Humor, but like, haha - Freeform, it's like an anti drug psa that your friend would give you while recovering from a coke hangover, or a bump of salt, so thake that with a grain of salt, this reads like an anti drug psa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21825391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TokioSunset/pseuds/TokioSunset
Summary: The Scout and Soldier are sent off to spy on a possible traitor within the team. This is definitely not a distraction and certainly not a wild goose chase. The rest of the team is definitely not having a party while they're gone, no sir.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23





	A Little White Lie

As he took a long, laboured drag of his cigarette, Sniper squinted at the cellphone, hoping that the recipient would heed his words. “Listen. There isn’t much time. Whatever you do, make sure you don’t make any noise while you’re searching through everything the frog owns. Remember kiddo, slow and steady wins the race.”

Somewhere across the map, the Scout sneered at the marksman’s poor choice of words. “That is so far from the truth. Wow. I am like, actually the worst person you could have told that to.” He looked in front to the Soldier, who was struggling to input the code – he kept forgetting the number of ones. The air was filled with a monotone _beep beep beep_ as he inserted each digit.

As the rainbow trout-sized phone weighted heavy on the Sniper’s gloved hand, he used the other to prop it up. Stale nicotine stench flared up into the ceiling, dimming the already dark and smoky lounge. “Don’t play smart with me. We received news from Pauling that we might have a traitor in our midst. Do whatever you can to find all the dirt you can on him,” his voice darkened, “but exert extreme caution. It is your life on the line.”

The Scout’s head perked up as the tell-tale click revealed the mercenaries’ quarters. The Soldier rubbernecked and lifted up a thumb, radiating with savant idiot energy. The Scout leisurely stepped forward. “Why doesn’t Pauling just come herself?”

“Because she –” The Sniper craned his neck to his teammates in the background, who provided no immediate information. He improvised. “She has her full and complete trust in you and has promised to clean up any possible fallout.” With an almost theatrical flourish, the Sniper snarled. _“Be it documentation or carcasses.”_

“Wow, he ist fantastisch.”

“That’s why it ain’t me on that phone.”

_“Shh!”_

Thick eyebrows arched above the man’s amber-coloured sunglasses, a mixture of exasperation and very mild panic. “Do your job, Scout. I guarantee it will make one little sheila very happy.”

“I’m nothing if I ain’t a ladies’ man.” The Scout’s shoulders shimmied with the air of an inflatable arm flailing tube man during a gust of wind. “We’ll get the frog… if that’s even his real name.”

“… right. Get it done. But take your time. _Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer._ ”

“Easy there, Shakespeare,” said an unimpressed Heavy. The Sniper’s entire body jolted to the burly Russian.

 _WILL-YOU-SHUT-UP_ he mouthed, almost dropping the twenty-pound cell-phone. On the other hand, he heard a crackling, muffled reply.

_“You can count on us, stretch. Right, Soldier, let’s go!”_

One click, and the signal was gone.

The Sniper did a small celebratory jerk of his forearm as the rest of the party cheered. Pyro put on the Doors on record, filling the smoky air with languid, ethereal tunes. Glasses full of whiskey clinked, spilling contents all over the wooden floorboards. Cigars, held up by thirsty mouths pointed victoriously into the air. A thick torrent of whiskey and beer poured down their mouths, their faces, their uniforms, and finally across their wrists. The Engineer wiped away the cold ale from his stubbled lips, shooting an inquisitive look at the doctor.

“Say Doc, you didn’t happen to bring the, uh, medicine, didja?”

The Medic reached into his pocket, bringing out a Ziplock bag, filled to the brim with cocaine. “Naturlich! Tonight we gonna party like it’s 1939!”

***

Scout was always jealous of the Spy’s quarters. While he shared a room with the snoring Soldier and his war buddies made of plywood and possibly racoon fur, the Spy had always had his own section in the Dustbowl. Spacious, elegant, freshly-painted corridors emanating luscious heat coming from the central air, furniture lovingly picked from vintage antique shops by overpaid Italian interior designers. Even as the Scout accumulated wealth during his missions, the Spy’s living quarters always seemed to be exponentially improved compared to everyone else’s. The entire abode reeked of privilege, and it often made Scout wonder if the Spy’s accommodation was borne out of special treatment. Perhaps, Scout wondered, there was a chance that Pauling preferred him, in some regard, to his other teammates. Perhaps there was an attraction there, or even worse, an infatuation.

Couldn’t be, the Scout thought as he tiptoed across the solid gold floors. Pauling has seen him with his shirt off. His fine physique and rippling pecks were a sight to behold. The Spy probably didn’t even have pecks. He probably had something lame instead. Like manboobs. Or a third nipple.

The Scout’s envious musings were interrupted by the Soldier’s war cry.

“COME OUT WITH YOUR WHITE FLAG, TRAITOR! YOU ARE NO MATCH FOR – hmmmp!”

The Scout slapped the Soldier’s face, pressing in his cheeks so hard that his eyeballs popped out from under his helmet. “Quiet! This is not how a stakeout works!”

The Soldier’s eyes darted to the left, before slowly centering again. “Iht ishn’t?”

“No!” Removing his hand, the Scout made an explanatory motion, like he was karate-shopping a loaf of bread in three pieces. “Look, we need to find some dirt on this guy first. We need to search this place, top to bottom. We need evidence, and then we can bust him. Don’t you know how clandestine operations work?”

“They normally burn a big cross and start lynching.”

“What?!” The Scout jerked back so hard his dog tags swung like a pendulum for a while after. “No! Jesus, no… not KLAN – listen, listen.” He stopped his train of thought before sinking into the rabbit hole completely. Taking a deep breath, he pleadingly tented his fingers, bright blue eyes looking for a braincell, but finding one very confused patriot. “Do you know what clandestine means?”

The Scout gave up after a few seconds of silence, which may as well have white noise. “Secret! We are being secret. Okay?”

“OKAY!”

“And quiet,” the Scout whispered, which was an unusually strange and unnatural action which put him in a coughing fit. 

It was only then that they heard footsteps ahead, and loud creaking which intensified with every footfall. The Soldier knew right then how to act, as solid gold floors could only creak like rotten floorboards if it was used for dramatic effect, and things were about to get really dramatic if the crouton caught them jabbering in his halls.

Grabbing the Scout by the collar of his shirt, the Soldier ran fast and hard. A sharp turn left Scout gagging for air, before eventually settling, pressed like a pancake into the wall of the Spy’s study. The footsteps did not subside – the Frenchman was coming their way.

“Shit,” the Scout hissed as sweat beaded over his brow. “Shit, shit, shit…”

“You got this, kid.” He clapped his back hard and pushed him onto the floor, where he rolled until he was under the sofa.

The Soldier used a more appropriate hiding tactic, which was placing a lampshade over his face. He always knew having a lampshade in his inventory would come in handy. They laughed at him in Normandy, the laughed at him in Waterloo, they ignored him in Pearl Harbour, but he knew that posing was a lamp would be the bright idea to get him out of whatever shit life threw his way. Furthermore, his steady diet of Merasmus’ heart medication and thermometer mercury left him with the ability to glow in the dark at will, and also piss blood (though that part not really at will).

It was at this moment that the Spy came stomping into the room, his face tight under his balaclava. He was dressed in a fine suit, but his tie was loosened, and his gloves off in order to get himself a beverage. The Scout observed him walk up to an ornate globe and open it up, taking first a glass and a bottle, then pausing for a second before leaving the glass back inside. The temperament was unusual for the always composed Spy, but Scout did not catch that. He was fascinated by the drink globe and made a mental note to get one for himself.

The Spy popped the cork and held it clutched in his hand, the droplets of wine staining his palms as he took a swig. “Putain de merde,” he muttered as he exited the door, only stopping to observe the new lamp that he did not know he possessed. Unblinking, he stared at the object, which the Soldier took as his cue to shine.

Biting down hard on the metal wire, the Soldier began to emanate a fluorescent green glow, which the Spy found most offensive.

He stuck out his tongue.

“Eugh. My designer is _so_ fired.”

He walked outside, seemingly unperturbed by what he had seen, but certainly less livid than a second ago. Listening in, the Scout and Soldier waited until the footfalls were a murmur, then a whisper, then a shout as the Spy accidentally spilled some wine over the floor, and then it was all silent again.

The Scout rolled from under the sofa, breathing out a sigh of relief. “That was close.”

The Soldier took the lampshade off and grinned. “I’m happy my disguise worked. You could say that I’m…”

“Don’t.”

“Delighted.”

The Scout couldn’t help himself and struck his forehead into his cupped hands. “Terrible.” Standing off the ground, he dusted himself off, and invited his teammate to look over the contents of the study. Namely, the sick booze globe.

***

The party was well underway. Bottle after bottle of whiskey was running dry. The record has been off for an hour, and nobody appeared to notice. The Heavy waxed poetic to an empty chair about his new upcoming screenplay, the Medic and the Engineer had an intense yet friendly back and forth concerning the ethics behind animal testing (the Medic being absolutely for it, until Archimedes was brought into the debate, at which point he backpedalled hard). The Demoman sat in silence, murder in his eyes as the Pyro talked the ears off him through his latex mask.

The Sniper did not want to be the bearer of bad news. He really didn’t. But he had to.

“Uhh… Medic? Medic?”

“Well I am not saying animal testing has not brought us any benefits, I’m just saying some animals are to be tested on and…”

“Medic?”

“Archimedes is absolutely not one of them. He is a pet, you would not be testing on your dog now, would you?”

“LEAVE LADYBIRD OUTTA THIS!”

The Engineer stood up from his seat, his fist tightened, and the Medic did the same. The men stared each other down, their murderous intent brought to an unceremonious end when the Sniper shouted again.

“Lads! Lads,” He took a deep breath, not wanting to be the one to say it, “Lady, we’re outta coke.”

The room was entirely all on him, and even the Pyro ceased mumbling. And before anybody could say a thing about ordering more to the middle of nowhere, the sun peered into the room, and birds began chirping. A wave of despair washed over the party, as well as a very, very unpleasant comedown.

***

The Soldier and Scout have searched everything.

Each book from the Spy’s abode was studied, each cushion upturned, and no inch of flooring was left unchecked. No wiretapping devices under the tables or behind walls, absolutely nothing of note in the transcripts of their battles (they were all redacted anyway; a detail the Soldier found highly suspicious until the Scout pointed out that fifty pages of black marker lines wouldn’t be much help to the Ruskies either). They had searched the man’s bedroom, finding only wine, sleep aids, and French pornography which was too pretentious to be arousing. An assortment of Balenciaga balaclavas was taken out of the drawers and checked for suspicious elements, Chanel boots were gathered and tested for listening devices and explosive substances, and the Spy’s Gucci belt was confiscated just because… well. Free Gucci belt.

They had somehow made it into the austere kitchen, which proved to be totally austere except for the man’s fridge, which contained mountains upon mountains of frozen pizzas. There was an absolute abundance of them, none out of date, and every single one the same flavour, which was grilled vegetables and pesto.

“What do you make of this?” The Scout’s tired eyes tried to adjust to the harsh neon ight of the refrigerator.

The Soldier crossed his arms and responded in a harsh whisper. “I’ve never seen a vegetarian that wasn’t up to something.”

“Good point.”

The Scout closed the fridge, and looked to the kitchen door, where a soft glow of the television enveloped the Spy’s silhouette. He was slumped in a very thick leather armchair, his arms hanging lifelessly on each armrest. A remote dangled in his listless fingers, and every once in a while, he would grumble and change the channel like some cantankerous Jewish grandparent on Christmas eve.

 _“Up next,”_ said a staid voice over a graphic depicting a pile of shite dust next to a skull, _“is cocaine bad for you? The answer might surprise you.”_

 _“Foutre le camp.”_ The Spy changed the channel, growing more and more unimpressed with what late-night TV had to offer. As he glared at the scream, half-pleadingly and half-demandingly looking for entertainment, the Scout and Soldier tiptoed behind him.

The Spy’s TV-watching room was fairly simple compared to the rest of his accommodation – no gilded floors or velvet curtains, just a fat little colour TV, an antique radio perched up on a mahogany table, one or two bookshelves and another globe which served as a bar. Seriously, how many bar globes could a man possibly have or need? The Scout fumed with jealously. One day he would get two of those for his place, he swore on his Gucci belt.

Looking at the radio, he signalled to Soldier to check it for listening devices, quietly. The Soldier nodded, signalling for scout to hit a speedball and run for the base, and following that, he should grow a pair of big titties and parade around the south of France like some uppity foreign exchange student from the East coast during her first semester abroad.

… what?

The Scout signalled for the Soldier to look – connecting their eyes with his index and middle finger. _The radio_ – he pointed at it – _take it_ – he mimicked grabbing it – _and search it_ – he flattened his palm over his brow as if he were looking across the sea.

The Soldier nodded. _Take it_ – he mimicked grabbing it – _movie_ – he spun a phantom movie projector – _two words_ – he held out four fingers – _first word_ – he put one finger up, and then proceeded to impersonate an old man’s rickety gait.

The Scout pinched the bridge of his nose. “We are not doing charades!” He hissed/whispered, and decided just to speak quietly instead. “Just take the damn thing.”

Staring ahead, disappointed that the Scout did not understand his impression of _Wuthering Heights,_ the Soldier grabbed the sides of the radio and tried pulling it close to his chest, only for it to be held back by some unknown cosmic force. Pulling and pulling, he ignored Scout’s worried comment to keep it down and take it easy, and kept tugging until he ripped the electricity chord from the radio. The black vinyl snake remained in the socket, red and blue wiring sticking out of the end.

The TV continued to play as the two stared at each other in rising concern.

“Well Monica,” a sleazy white-haired host opened the envelope to the tune of a jeering crowd. “The paternity tests came back from the lab. The results are in…”

A drumroll began, and a swarthy young man shuffled anxiously in his seat.

“Filipe’s NOT your dad!” The presenter sang to the tune of _Feliz Navidad_. “Filipe’s NOT your dad!” The crowd cheered as Monica stared with her mouth agape in anguish, and the swarthy man, presumably Filipe hanged his head in relief.

The Spy decided this passed his degree of tolerance for idiot television.

The two auxiliary spies looked at the now-useless radio just as the Spy came across some awful soap opera and shut off the television with a flourish. He stood from his seat, growling and rubbing his tired face. This obfuscated his vision just enough for the Soldier to drop the radio back in its place, and hide behind the globe bar with the Scout.

The Spy came up to the radio and began to tune it, not hearing any noise. He did so, yet his exasperation did not increase until a minute or so in, when he began to suspect that the lack of signal might be due to a faulty machine rather than the fact that they were in the middle of the New Mexico desert.

Stammering, the Scout began to recreate tuning noises the best he could, raking his brain for whatever might be on the radio at this moment.

“Uhh… Uhhh…. DECK THE HALLS WITH BOUGHS OF HOLLY, FA-LA-LA-LA-LA, LA-LA-LA-LA, SOLDIER-PLEASE-SING-OR-WE-BOTH-DIE!”

“FA-LA-LA-LA-LA, LA-LA-LA-LA!”

“Don we now or gay ap- wheeeuuu, wheeeee,” The Scout made tuning noises as the Spy moved the dial, paying close attention to when he stopped. Trying to read the man’s facial expression proved fruitless, as it remained as dark and deadpan as ever. “Uhh… Uh, welcome, to the, uh, time network! The time today is, uh…” he checked his watch, “three am. A-and fifteen seconds. Join us later when it will be four am. And then five. And so on.”

“ _Mon Dieu_ , they really shouldn’t have sacked Leonard Warner form the Time network,” the Spy lamented out loud, “the new guy is hopeless.”

He turned the dial again, and the Scout somehow refrained from defending his time keeping techniques. The tuning noises continued, padding for time until inspiration struck, but it was the Soldier who became inspired and began to speak.

In some bizarre, beautiful metamorphosis, the Soldier tool off his helmet, and his entire demeanour suddenly changed, as if some strange weight was lifted from his brain. His shoulders relaxed, brilliant blue eyes softened and mellowed, and his voice became a honeyed medley of refined, artful sophistication, ever so slightly peppered with a knowing wit.

“Hey,” he said, his voice pure molasses, “Jack Chacksfield here. We have a helluva show for you tonight. Welcome to the Blues In The Night. Today we’re taking an esoteric journey through the senses. We’re starting off slow with some Brubeck and seeing where the night takes us.”

As he spoke, the Scout pursed his lips and mimicked playing the saxophone intro of “Take Five”, trying to not overlap the Soldier’s radio presenter persona with his faux musical stylings. The Spy actually stayed and listened, which worried the Scout ever so slightly.

“We will travel to many stops on this, uh, on this midnight train. We’ll be touching on music’s greatest old glories and having a cheeky stop when we reach those new sounds. We’re looking for something esoteric, something to blast you away. But for now, sit back, relax and,” he winked and clicked his tongue audibly, “Take Five, everyone.”

The Spy leaned back with his arms crossed over his chest, not looking immediately put off. As soon as he imagined doing this all night, a strange nausea crept over in his stomach. He made a horrible, screechy static noise, and the masked mercenary groaned.

The Soldier’s helmet was back on his song, concealing the mellow persona once again.

“Tonight, on Finger on the Trigger,” the Scout began, not sure where he’s going,” “We are going to discuss Saxton Hale. Is beating hippies beneficial to our nation as a whole? Scientists say, yes. With me now is Doctor Carl Breinbeck from the University of Hard Knocks.”

“Good evening.”

“So what exactly do you teach at the university, Professor?”

“I don’t teach.”

“Oh no?”

“I live there, I sleep in the teacher’s lounge.”

“I see. Is that an act of protest taken due to the increasing costs of housing in the Hard Knocks Area or attempting to sympathize with the newly homeless hippies?”

“Couches are very soft, and also you get free coffee if you run fast enough!”

“I see.”

_Riiiiiing. Riiiiiiing._

“It appears we have a call from an audience member. Hello sir! You are on air.”

_“Uh, hello? I have something to ask you at the studio.”_

“Go right ahead, sir.”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE?!”

The Soldier and Scout leapt to see the Spy glaring down at them. His amusement slowly turned to anger, and then rage. “Why are you sneaking about my quarters at this time of the night, wrecking my belongings?”

The Scout stammered. “H-how did you know we were there?”

The Soldier blinked. “Did you actually go _ring-ring_ just there? Was that a conscious effort?”

The Spy ignored the Soldier’s inquiry, perhaps to preserve his dignity. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with the rest of those fools having the time of your lives for about thirty minutes and then being miserable for the rest of the night?”

The Soldier and Scout shared a sidelong glance. Snapping out of it, the Scout pointed an accusatory finger at the Soldier. “Hey! That’s exactly like something a traitor would say to distract us from the fact he’s a traitor!”

Taken aback by just a moment, the Spy leaned back as he stood. “Wait… are you here to gather intel on me?”

“YES!” The Soldier replied victoriously, only to be hit in the side of the arm by the Scout. “Ow! I mean… no! I mean… what’s it to ya, you double-crossing, white-flag waving commie?”

Rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, the Spy released a sigh. “Who sent for you? The rest of RED?”

“Yes! Ow, stop hitting me!”

The Spy ignored the two’s bickering, as he identified the cause immediately. “God they are pathetic. You do know they’re just having a party and didn’t want you there, right?”

In the Spy’s head, it made sense. The team members were lately partying “on the bag”, and there were some egos that cocaine absolutely did not mesh well with – arguably cocaine did not mesh well with anybody anyway, but he could imagine the Scout and Soldier to be the worst offenders in the ego department. The Soldier was perplexed by this development, but the Scout was not. Not being invited to RED’s parties was sort of his forte.

“That… that makes sense,” the speedster said. His baby blue eyes lit up with an idea. “But… but wait a minute! If you’re not with them, that means they kicked you out too, right?”

“Oh, no. This was all my decision, _mes amis_. I can’t stand the stuff.” He pulled a disgusted face which was even noticeable from his balaclava. “You pay extortionate amounts of money for something that is going to be gone in a night, and the party basically ends as soon as it runs out. It makes you jittery, it makes you sick, it makes you not being to feel your face,” he listed off the negatives for so long that he needed to switch hands, “in the presence of women you can get incredibly horny but not be able to achieve and maintain an erection which is not a good time for anybody.”

“Should we be listening to this, or…?”

“No matter how much you take it’s never going to be as good as the first line, and there’s no stopping after the first one unless you have nerves of steel. Drinking basically cancels the thing out and yet everyone does it under the pretence it makes drinking better – perhaps, but you just wasted a hundred Euro to feel _less_ drunk!”

The Soldier had rising suspicions that the Spy was speaking from experience, and wondered if he should berate him for being a hippie drug abuser. Yet the manner in which he fervently spoke out against it made him reconsider and hold his tongue.

“Then when the party ends, you go home and try to get some sleep. But you can’t, because the stimulant effects are still gripping you, and then you hear the birds singing outside and think to yourself, this is it, I fucked up, today is going to be fucking terrible. It never, ever feels worth it. And the hangovers – _mon Dieu_ , the hangovers, they feel like you are a vase knocked over by an elephant. I’d much rather stick to the drink. It’s so pointless, it’s short-lasting, it fucks you up the next morning, it makes you jittery and awkward but unaware of it, everyone around you becomes a pretentious twat who either wants to start a business or write a novel but has no capital because – surprise, surprise! – they spent it all on cocaine.”

The Spy threw his hands up in exasperation, not even looking at the two. “But you know what? I’d forgive it! I’d forgive it completely if it just wasn’t so fucking _boring_.”

His hands dropped in resignation as an expression of pain and exhaustion painted his visage. “That is actually the worst part. It is the most boring drug in existence. That’s why so many people love it, it’s basically powdered confidence. If anybody needs powdered confidence they should definitely look somewhere else for their fix, because ultimately nothing ruins your confidence more than waiting outside of a club at 3am with a bloody nose and calling your dealer to get you some more.”

After the tirade, he recovered ever so slightly as a sly grin crept across the side of his face.

“Well. Let’s look on the bright side. This means the rest of them should be miserable by now. Anyway, where are my manners. All that snooping must have made you hungry. Frozen pizzas anyone?”

“OH HELL YES,” The Soldier exclaimed.

“And open up one of those globe thingies too, wouldja?”

***

The trio made their way into the party shortly after; the Spy announced their arrival with an airhorn, which was met with copious groaning from the mercenaries. The room was darkened, so the Spy waltzed to the curtains to open them wide, letting in the scorching sunlight. The Medic yowled and buried himself in the softest, darkest thing he could find without moving, and this was Heavy’s shoulder. The Heavy himself could only glare at the grinning Spy and the two more apologetic-looking mercs who came with him.

The Demoman had piled a mountain of tartan blankets atop himself, shivering away the effects of last night. The Pyro was asleep on the couch beside him, snoring through his mask. The Engineer was asleep as well, but he never made it to the couch, and instead opted to snooze on the couch.

Sniper’s sunglasses helped with the raging sunlight – he nursed his comedown with a can of Foster’s, sniffing occasionally. “You found the party.”

“Indeed,” the Spy replied with a shit-eating grin. “Good to see you haven’t gone off the _rails_.”

A collective groan erupted across the room. Sniper’s can of beer was quickly diminishing, and once empty, he threw it on the table behind the blue leather sofa – twenty cans have accumulated thus far. He cracked open another cold one.

“Terrible,” he said.

“Oh, _pardon_. I can see that I have… crossed a line.”

Another groan erupted as the Spy paced around, deliberately attempting to make as much noise as possible.

“I know, I know… my jokes… they blow. But I only wanted to take a crack at it.”

The Heavy leaned over to the man trying to find salvation in the rolls on his back. “Was he always this smug?”

The doctor released a guttural groan. “Straight-edge cocaine dealers usually are,” he said, and fell right asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, it's been a hot minute since I wrote for TF2. I hope the fandom is still alive, it has gotten be through so much and I am very, very grateful for it. 
> 
> Seriously kids, don't do drugs though.


End file.
